«ft BOOK OF POETRY
BOOK OF POETRY,
The only trap we wish to, see
Is one to catch the mind,
Knowledge the tempting bait should
And all a bit should find.
PITTSFIELD, MASS !
PUBLISHED BY E. WERDEN.
The cock who soundly sleeps at night*
Rises with the morning light,
Very loud and shrill he crows,
Then the sleeping plowman know0>
He must leave his bed also,
To his morning work to go.
And the little lark does fly s
To the middle of the sky*
When the sun is in the west,
The owl leaves his darksome aest ;
Wide he opens his staring eyes,
And screams as round and round he
For he kates the cheerful light,
He sleeps by day, and wakes at sight,
But I will lay my little head f
Down upon my pleasant bed.
My head is white,
My body isli^ht,
With cords I am faced around
I am beaten with sticks,
But not for bad tricks,
But to animate by my sound.
Jenny good spinner,
Come down to your dinner,
And taste tne leg of a frog.
Then all you good people,
Look over the steeple,
And see the cat play with the dog,
D* ar mother said a little
Pray is not that a fly,
Vm very hungry, and I wish
You'd let me go and try.
Sweet Innocent the mother criedj
And startled from her nook,
That horrid fly is put to hide
The iharpneis of the hook.
No head, nor eyes, nor wings have I,
And yet I mount up far on hi gh ;
A tail I have, my flight to guide,
Which is my beauty, boast and pride,
A prisoner keep me ; for if free,
Pm rarely seen again by thee ;
And if I were, my tattered state,
For rae your value would abate.
I fly to many foreign parts,
Assisted by my spreading wings ;
My body holds a hundred hearts-
Nay,! will tell you stranger things.
When I am not in haste, I ride,
And then I mend my pace anon ;
Fire oft issues trom my side —
Y* yankee youths, this addle con.